Night in the Rain
by Harmony Remarc
Summary: Fear. Hate. Danger. Friendship. Memories. Life ain't as easy as it sounds.
1. Prologue

_Ah, hello my faithful readers. Yeah, I haven't written anything in a while (lie... I write, I don't finish, I don't publish). Anywho, I blame the Strogue contest for this, and the 1kaday challange. I wrote most of this in one week (very difficult considering how much stuff happened this past month). I had some people beta some of it a long, long time ago, but most of it is brand spankin' new. _**The second paragraph is the one that was required for the contest**_. Anywho, have fun, and as always, reviews are loved and appreciated._

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**Prologue:**

His face was pressed against the dirty glass, the coolness radiating off it in sharp contrast to the sweat-laden forehead. His hair was still wet from the long sprint through the downpour, and droplets raced and slid down the arms propped high on either side of the windowsill.

The rain kept falling. It was a monotonous sound, the continual dripping of the steady rain, and it was enough to drive any of them mad. With every raindrop that made contact with the ground, it was another newspaper that was not sold. Because, obviously, who would go out and sell in the rain?

"Spot?"

The Brooklyn leader turned his head to look at the voice. Defeat was etched across every crease in the young man's expression. His eyes, once full, vibrant, and challenging now showed only emptiness. The blood that filled his head during the run was the only sign of color in the boy who had aged fifty years in less than a week. Spot—the same Spot who once wore bright red suspenders now stood before his second-in-command, weak and gray.

"Mince."

"It's…" Mince cleared his throat uncomfortably. "It's time to go."

Spot's expression didn't change. His blank eyes seemed to stare through Mince.

"We didn't know if you were going to make it," Mince said, trying to break the uncomfortable silence.

Spot's eyes flickered slightly, and he blinked. For a second, Mince thought he saw a hint of the Old Spot. The hope faded as Spot cast his gaze downward.

"Let's go," the King said dully.

* * *

Mince walked ahead of Spot to the main room of the lodging house. He made eye contact with half a dozen newsies scattered around the chilly boarding room. They stood, knowing what an honor they were being granted to escort their leader. As Spot walked out of the back room, each step seemed to weigh down on him. Still staring at the floor, Spot dragged himself slowly out the door, back into the rain, not seeing the handful of newsies following him. Not seeing those left behind standing tall in respect, tears falling silently, matching the rain sliding down the windows.

* * *

"We are gathered here today to mourn the loss of a young man whose life was taken from this earth far too early. Let us all remember the good times with the young man, and let his death remind us that life cannot last forever, and teach us to appreciate the time we have left." 

The preacher closed his Bible and nodded to the crowd of young boys. The previous downpour had slowed to a lazy drizzle, the sunless sky matching the expressions on each newsie. As he turned away, Jack stepped forward to the simple wooden coffin. It was obvious to all surrounding that it was difficult for him to find his voice. He looked helplessly over his shoulder at Spot. Spot's gaze was empty and hollow. He couldn't meet Jack's gaze for long, and he soon was staring at a small patch of red on Jack's bandana. The other boy's slowly started to break away, some walking alone, others in pairs, clutching one another for support. Finally, only the Brooklyn newsies remained near the two leaders, but even they stood half a dozen graves away, watching anything but the boys in front of them.

"Who's the parson?"

It was the first thing Spot had spoken since he was back in Brooklyn.

"Friend of Kloppman. Owed 'em a favor."

"Figures."

The teenagers were silent, each examining the plain casket resting on the ground at their feet. Suddenly, Spot shook his head violently.

"It's all my fault!"

The Brooklynites started at the loudest noise they'd heard their leader make since the incident. Jack, too, was startled. His face crinkled in surprise, smoothed in understanding, and then creased again in anger.

"No it ain't Spot. It's my fault. He was _my_ boy. I should have watched out for him better."

"But he was hiding in _my_ territory. And I let those monsters get to him!"

Spot spat the word "monsters" as if it were poison. Jack looked as if he were about to argue, and then paused, and nodded slowly.

"You're right, Spot. It's all your fault," Jack slowly moved away from his friend, inching to the other side of the coffin. "I trusted you with my boy. And now he's dead. _Dead_. Because you couldn't stop him. Because you ran away."

The energy that had rushed into Spot seeped back out just as quickly. His shoulders sank as his knees fell to the ground. Laying his hands on the casket, he took in a deep, shuddering breath. Jack shook his head angrily and twisted around to walk away. Before he'd gone a dozen feet, Spot looked up.

"Jack?"

Jack paused, and tilted his head to indicate he was listening.

"Where's your hat?"

Slowly, Jack moved his feet so he was facing Spot.

"Right where I left it. The alleyway where Boots was murdered."


	2. Chapter 1

**So the prologue was pretty depressing for people reading/reviewing. But ah, well. I like the story, so I'm going to keep posting anyway. This chapter is kind of dull-ish, but it sets the stage for where the characters are at and whatnot. Have fun!

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**Chapter 1:**

September 1950

"Ugh!" 11-year-old James pushed back his chair and paced around the dining room. An elderly gentleman raised his eyes and watched the young boy move about frantically.

"Something wrong, James?"

"This stupid story I'm supposed to do for English, Grandpa. I can't think of _anything_ to write!" The grandfather peered over his spectacles at the lad with amusement.

"What sort of story are you looking for?" James groaned.

"It's stupid. I'm supposed to take a real event and turn it into a fictional story. And Grandpa, it has to be at least three pages long!" The end of his explanation sounded suspiciously like whining.

"Any particular event?" Grandpa queried.

"Not really, as long as it's set in the year 1900. My history and English teachers decided to team up for this report." James grimaced, not noticing the older man's eyes spark with interest. "You were alive then, right Grandpa Jack?"

Jack nodded. "Indeed, James Kelly. That was just a year after I met your grandmother." James snorted.

"I'm supposed to do something that 'pertains to the world', Grandpa. Not my ancestors love story. Nothing exciting happened in 1900. No wars, no famines, no assassinations."

Grandpa Jack tilted his head to study his grandson. After a moment, he stood up and slowly walked to the cabinet on the other side of the room. Opening a glass case, he pulled out an ancient black cowboy hat, musty with age, and fingered it. Turning back to James, he drew in a long breath.

"A lot happened in the year 1900, James. More than I'd like to remember." James stared at his grandfather, puzzled.

"What do you mean, Grandpa? I thought you lived in New York. _Nothing _happened in New York. Just like nothing happens here in New Mexico."

"Nothing, James David Kelly?"

"Why are you calling me by my full name, Grandpa? What's wrong? Grandpa?" The old man sat heavily back in his chair at the eastern end of the house, right by the window. His hands shook as he held the cowboy hat. The Hat of Memories. "Grandpa? Why are you holding that hat? You always told us never to touch it. Grandpa? Grandpa!"

James was getting frightened. Why wasn't his grandfather answering him? "Jack Kelly! Please, Grandpa! Talk to me!"

The aged man stared out the window, searching in earnest. James hastened to sit by his father's father. Placing his hands on the man's knee, he looked imploringly for any response. Finally, sound emerged. The voice that came forth was no longer filled with amusement, but was cracked with age and emotion. As James looked into his grandfather's eyes, he saw they no longer resided in the modern age of 1950, but instead were set back, as though watching a film that only he could see.

"Nineteen-hundred. It was a year of memories. David had gone back to school and was hoping to get a scholarship go to college. Smart boy, David was. Sarah was exploring the world from her balcony, and didn't like what she was seeing…"

"Do you mean Grandma Sarah who died before I was born?" Young James probed inquisitively. His grandfather continued as though there had been no interruption, still lost in the vision of the past.

"Spot was getting edgy. He wasn't satisfied with being a newsie for the rest of his life, and was starting to search for a new occupation. Didn't stop him from ruling New York, though. Me? I was still peddlin' the papes. I wished I'd be able to for the rest of my life, but I knew I couldn't-- wouldn't. Pulitzer told me when I was ready I could take over Weasel's old job. I wasn't ready right away, but I would be. And Boots…" The 68-year-old man trailed off and looked at his grandson. James saw such an intensity there that he literally moved away from his family member. No longer were the eyes that of a man well beyond his golden years, but instead were reflected eyes from generations past. The eyes of an eighteen-year-old boy with the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Mid-July 1900

"Well, boys," Jack Kelly propped his feet up on the table at the restaurant, "this is it." Beside him, Spot Conlon smirked.

"Let's get the show on, Jackey-boy. We don't wanna hear your speeches forever. It's a celebration, not a lecture." Jack laughed.

"Alright, Spot. This'll be short, I promise." Raising his voice, he called out to his friend. "Speech, Dave!" The Walking Mouth jerked his head at the sound of his name.

"Me?"

"No, the other David who'd give a speech about the one year anniversary of our victory." Spot replied sarcastically. David made a face, and unsteadily rose from his own table. Mild laughter floated to his ears from the far corner of the room, and David glared at Bryan Denton's amusement.

A voice that sounded suspiciously like Racetrack started chanting loudly. Within seconds, Tibby's was echoing with the voices of newsies. "Speech! Speech! Speech! Speech!" David sighed, looking exactly like he had just over a year ago when he was accidentally volunteered to lead the infamous strike.

"Once upon a time, there was a dream. A dream for equality. Don't let them treat us like we don't exist. Some _brave_, intelligent boys decided they wanted this dream to become reality, so they went on strike. It would have failed if the most respected of them had not agreed with their mission. With that support, they fought back." David was having fun being sarcastic. "Life was good for these dreamers- they made the front page! It seemed like nothing could go wrong until…" The Mouth paused, unsure how to address the continuation of his 'fairy tale'. "Until the oppressors tricked a leader into betraying the dreamers. But nothing could stop them. The traitor returned to his own kind. The mighty men fell. Victory came, and the dream was realized. The end." The older Jacob's brother sat down abruptly. There was a slightly awkward silence as every eye turned to see how the former traitor would react. Jack was nodding, and started clapping.

"That's my boy. We beat it!" Following the example of his friend, Spot also applauded, and the others mimicked. Over the ruckus, Jack shouted, "Tibby! Drinks all 'round!" The requested article was passed around the restaurant; the poor waiters were being jostled every which way as they attempted to keep up with the shouted demands. Through it all, Les Jacobs shoved his way insistently through the excited crowd, yelling meaninglessly over the noises.

"Jack! Jack!" the ten-year-old called, finally being heard by the one he wanted. Smiling, Jack looked at his little friend fondly. "Heya, Les!" The younger boy proudly held out the papers he had hidden stubbornly under his arms. A bark-like laugh emerged from Jack as he saw what was written on the sheets. Curious, Spot leaned over to see what the fuss was about. He let out a long, low whistle.

"Didn't see that one coming. Where'd you get them, Les?" Spot put his mouth next to the younger child's ear in order to be heard.

"Saved 'em. We were in the papers! Ma keeps _everything_." Les replied in the same manner. Spot nodded knowingly, and grabbing the two newspapers climbed importantly up onto a chair.

"Fellas! Listen up!" The waiters shot Spot looks of obvious gratitude as the restaurant quickly settled, all eyes fixated the Brooklyn king. "Les here has brought some great treasures. This here article from the Sun, and the Newsies Banner. Look familiar to any 'a you?" Spot smirked at the earsplitting cheers generated from the papers. Dropping them onto the table, he scooped up a glass and thrust it above his head. "Just like last year," he said when the celebrators calmed down, nodding to the reporter in the corner. "To our man Denton!"

"To our man, Denton!" the newsies echoed excitedly, taking a swig out of their glasses. The man stood, a smile growing.

"You boys," he began, "have taught me so much. Thank you, Jack, David, Les," he said nodding to each in turn, "for not letting me give up. Now, as we stand here for our reunion, I wish I could give you as much as you gave me." The newsies friend opened his mouth to continue speaking, but saw he was already losing the attention of the teenagers. "To victory!" He finished, drinking a mouthful of his liquid. The newsies followed suit and turned back to their own conversations and exclamations.

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**Please review.**


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2:**

One month later:

"Boots!" A young black man, about 20 years old, crossed the crowded streets to meet the friend he had called. "Boots! Good to see you again. Still selling papers, I see?"

The youth grinned in response to his cousin's call and held up his stack.

"Conspiracy at the Olympics! Read all about it!"

"What Olympics?"

"Figures _you_ wouldn't know," Boots taunted.

The other boy shrugged his shoulders cheerfully.

"Ah well. Just can't keep up with the times, poor me."

"Yes, poor you," Boots laughed. "How's it goin', Arthur?"

Arthur shrugged again, his smile fading slightly. Boots wrinkled his face in concern.

"Arthur?"

Arthur was now looking past Boots. The younger boy spun his head to look behind him. He saw a very pretty black girl talking to a white man. "Leave her alone, you bastard…"

Boots felt himself tense when Arthur muttered. Without warning, the man grabbed the girl's wrists tightly, and her face reflected obvious pain.

"Think that just because your white you can get anything you want? Leave her alone. Leave her alone. Leave her _alone_!"

The last word came as a shout. Boots was pushed backwards as Arthur ran toward the girl. The other man turned around at the loud voice, eyes growing wide at the sight of a madman rushing him. He took a side step as Arthur slowed down and paused, panting in front of the couple. Boots inched his way to where the trio stood. From his vantage point, still several feet away, he could hear and see everything with sickening clarity.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Arthur accused the other man, his tone dangerous.

Boots watched the second man reach into his belt and pull out a club. Arthur was oblivious as he continued to rant.

"Mary's my girl, and you ain't gonna to nothing to her, you hear?"

"Arthur! Watch out!"

The newly named Mary screamed as Boots' warning came too late. The white man brought his club smashing violently against Arthur's abdomen. Arthur doubled over with the unexpected pain, but was given no relief as the undercover policeman continued to beat him mercilessly. Blow after blow hit against Arthur's body, and it looked as though he would be killed. Frightened, Mary had run away, ducking down a nameless alleyway.

Suddenly, a flash of light hit Boots' eyes as he saw Arthur withdraw a small knife from his pocket. Time moved in slow motion as Arthur slashed out against his attacker, driving the knife in, pulling it out, and aiming again. As he pulled away a second time, Arthur locked eyes with Boots, a wild, fearful look sending shock waves down Boots' spine. Disentangling himself from the policeman, Arthur started running. Boots paused for only a second, then followed his cousin, hoping desperately he was running toward safety.

As Boots became one with the streets of New York, a small crowd was already gathering around the bleeding man. Many of them recognized the small black boy who often stood on that corner selling the banner, and a deep hatred was beginning to form.

* * *

"Hey, hey, hey, hey, easy there!" Jack Kelly felt a bundle of energy plow into him and found himself standing two feet away from his original position.

Looking down to see which body had the nerve to plow into him, Jack was startled to see the dark brown eyes of Boots staring at him. The younger boy was shaking, and it was obvious to all that he was scared.

"Boots?" Bumlets stepped out from the crowd and looked at his friend with concern.

"He's gone… ran away… Washington, I think to his mother's… hitched a train… just waved and he was gone… Oh, God, I think they're coming after me!' Boots was incoherent.

"Who's comin' after you, kid?" Racetrack asked, a wrinkle furrowing it's way in his forehead.

Instead of responding, the young newsie looked around at his fellow workers desperately and collapsed.

* * *

The next morning, Blink woke early and walked to the distribution office. The city had finally cooled to a manageable temperature during the night, but Blink knew that long before noon, the unbearable heat would radiate from the very pores of the city. The screech of chalk on a board alerted Blink to the fact that he was not the only early riser. Craning his neck, he searched the morning headlines. As he started to read, he squinted eyes grew wide, and he felt cold all over.

* * *

"27-year-old Irish police officer Robert Thorpe was murdered yesterday afternoon by a black man by the name of Arthur Harris on West Forty-First Street. The murder weapon, a penknife, was found several blocks away. Local citizens identified the killer was accompanied by a young woman and a youth, both black. The youth was about five foot…"

Jack dropped the paper and looked up, not willing to finish reading the description of Boots aloud. He scanned the article quickly and found what he had been searching for-- and dreading.

"Boots is wanted. And they know he's in Manhattan."

An uncomfortable silence allowed the noises of the city enter the open-aired distribution office. As Boots searched his friend's faces, he grew anxious as no one was quite able to meet his eyes.

"Jack? What am I gonna do? Help me Jack, please help me!"

Boots was near tears as he pleaded with Jack. Jack shook his head slowly, opening and shutting his mouth several times as though he wasn't sure what he wanted to say. Bumlets looked at his leader, and finally cleared his throat.

"Jack? What about Brooklyn?"

"Brooklyn?" Racetrack snorted. "Brooklyn is lead by _Spot Conlon_, remember? The toughest _Irish_ newsie around? Read the paper, Bum. The Irish hate 'Negroes'. It's a miracle Boots has been allowed in there at all."

"No, no…" Jack's tone changed slightly. "That might be it! Boots and Spot have a strong friendship. That goes beyond racial rivalries. Nobody'd mess with Boots if he was there."

"But his boys are Irish, too," Mush pointed out.

Jack ran the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away the growing beads of sweat. His newsies watched him apprehensively. Finally, Jack shook his head.

"They're just going to have to deal with it. After this edition is out, Boots ain't gonna be safe here in Manhattan."

Jack looked down to where Boots was sitting below him. The younger boy smiled weakly. Jack pursed his lips, and turned his gaze toward the brilliant blue sky before standing and starting the long trek to Brooklyn, Boots following in his wake.

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**Please review.**


	4. Chapter 3

_Just a warning, there is language that might be considered offensive here._

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**Chapter 3:**

"Yeah, I read about it," Spot cut Jack off from speaking as he and Boots neared the Brooklyn leader.

He'd been selling near the Bridge, almost as though he was waiting for the pair to arrive. As soon as they'd arrived, Spot had pulled them into a shaded alleyway, hardly cooler than it was out in the sun, albeit much more private. Leaning against the wall, Spot crossed his arms and studied the boys in front of him, eyes mostly hidden by the cap pulled low.

"Talk." There was no emotion in the Irishman's voice.

"It ain't what you think, Spot."

"One of my kind was murdered yesterday, Jackey-boy. _He_," Spot jerked his head toward Boots, "was put in the paper for 'accompanying' the killer. Just tell me what I'm supposed to think." Still, there was no change in the cool tone.

"Arthur was attacked!" Boots blurted. "His girlfriend was being grabbed by that man, and he ran to help her. Then that man turned on him and started beating him. Arthur stabbed him defending himself!"

Spot's eyes turned to Boots, sharp and glaring. Never moving his position, he replied slowly.

"And you believe him, _Francis_?"

"I believe my friend-- and yours. Your 'people', the newsies? I believe them before I believe some stranger I've never met before."

Spot jerked his head to stare down Jack, eyes blazing. He opened his mouth to speak when he felt something cool and round roll over the top of his hand. Looking down at his still crossed arms, he saw three marble shooters. Head bowed he examined them, and moved his eyes back toward Boots. The black boy looked at his friend tentatively.

"I don't want to die, Spot."

Spot's focus was on a random brick on the other side of the alley, his eyes clouded with memories. Hazily, he spoke.

"S'what you said to me the first time. 'fore you even knew my name-- heck, that's how I got my name! You wanted me to protect you. From your papa. And I wanted to learn how to read. And more marbles to shoot with. An eye for an eye, you said. Favor for a favor."

Spot's gaze cleared and he focused back on the two teenagers watching him. He nodded, more to himself than the others.

"So what do you need?"

"Protection. Again," Boots sounded apologetic. After a moment of thought, Spot looked up.

"Don't know how the others'll handle this, but I owe you one."

Simultaneous smiles broke across the Manhattaner's faces.

* * *

"Sure you're gonna be okay?" Jack looked like a mother hen, hovering over Boots at the Brooklyn lodging house. 

Boots swallowed, but smiled nervously to reassure his leader.

"Dart doesn't seem too thrilled I'm here," Boots said, nodding toward a big-boned boy-- Spot's best shooter. "From what I've heard, he's pretty prejudiced." At the horrified look on Jack's face, Boots rushed to correct the assumptions, "I'll be fine, Jack. I've got Spot on my side, remember?"

Jack looked unconvinced, but a look at the growing darkness caused another concern for worry.

"I need to get home."

Boots nodded, and he walked Jack toward the door. As Jack turned to say goodbye, he was hit with a sudden urge to do _something_. Grabbing the string around his neck, Jack pulled off his infamous cowboy hat and placed it gently on Boots head. Admiring the effect, he took a step back.

"Take good care of that, alright kid? I'll be back, just as soon as this all blows over, little brother. I promise."

Boots fingered the worn cloth resting on his hair. Inspired, he saluted Jack, and the two said goodbye. As Jack walked away, the leader couldn't help but wonder if it was the last time he'd get the chance to say his farewells.

* * *

"Nigger, what do you think you're doin' here?" 

Boots stiffened at the voice but continued to play his game of solitaire.

"You think that hiding out under big boy Spot's shadow is gonna hide you from us? I don't know what sort of witchcraft you played on him, but you ain't gonna get away with this. Your kind killed one of my kind, and you're gonna pay."

Boots looked into the pale blue irises glaring at him. Shrugging slightly at Spot's top shooter, he turned back to his game but was interrupted once more as a large hand shot out and cuffed him across the back of the head.

"Hey!" The bully turned at the sound of Spot's short call. "Don't _ever_ touch him, you hear me, Dart?"

Spot moved closer. Almost breathing on Dart's neck, his words were dangerous.

"He's hurt? Jack's gone. And guess where that leaves you, without Jackey-boy running off the Delancey's for you?"

Dart breathed in sharply. His memory was nearly as good as his aim with a slingshot. After mistakenly getting in a fight with Oscar and breaking his nose, the Delancey's had been out for revenge ever since. It was only by Jack's taunts and fights that they remained on their side of the Brooklyn Bridge.

"I don't trust 'em, Spot."

"And he should trust you?" Spot's loud echo was a sharp contrast to the harsh whisper of Dart. Spot took a step back and studied his slingshot, running his thumb over the smooth wood. "And you call me prejudiced because I have a problem with Italians."

Spot looked outside and the dark night.

"Lights out in ten minutes, boys. And you might wanna get up early tomorrow. Smells like rain."

* * *

Dawn was stubbornly refusing to appear. Boots sat curled up on his bunk, rocking slowly back and forth, wondering what this day would bring. The heat had finally broken the previous night with a loud crack, followed by a long, low roll of thunder. Boots had watched the light dance across the walls and listened to the drum rolls in their aftermath. Soon, however, all that was left was the rain. The pouring sheets had slowed to a slow drizzle, and then picked back up again. 

Grey gradually began to replace the blackness outside. Boots untwisted his legs and climbed out of bed. As he began to pull on his suspenders, he heard footsteps behind him. Turning, he saw Spot watching him blearily. Rubbing his eye, his spoke in a low, leaden voice so as not to wake the others.

"Boots, whadda you doing? Nobody's goin' outside today."

"I gotta sell."

"Forget it, kid. You ain't crazy enough to sell out in the rain. And you ain't stupid enough to even go outside today."

"I ain't stupid enough to stay inside with Dart. An' I know he's not the only one who ain't happy I'm here. If I stay, they'll go straight to the coppers."

Spot snorted.

"Half these boys are _wanted_ by the cops. They'd be turning themselves in."

Boots examined his hands, wringing his fingers as he waited for Spot to realize he was right. Finally, a sigh from Spot signaled victory.

"Alright. But be careful, Boots."

"You don't have to worry about me," Boots replied as he pulled on Jack's cowboy hat and disappeared out the door.

Spot shook his head, and wondered if he made the right decision.

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**Please review,**

**Harmony Remarc/Muchacha**


	5. Chapter 4

_Please review. This chapter... it's emotional. You have been warned._**  
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**Chapter 4:**

"You! Boy!" The harsh whisper came from a lump of rags.

Boots furrowed his brow and poked his toe in the bundle. A grunt from inside showed that he'd hit his target. Two brown eyes emerged from the pile, pleading for silence. Boots crouched down beside it and peered closer.

"Mary?"

"You're the boy that was with Arthur before… before…" Mary choked slightly.

"Yeah, that's me. What are you doing?"

"Hiding. You should be too! Are you crazy? _They're_ looking for you!"

"Nobody'd think to look for a wanted man doing his occupation in the rain," Boots reasoned.

Mary shook her head.

"Haven't you heard?"

"Heard… what?"

Mary's eyes darted about the empty streets before lowering her voice even more. Boots had to lean in closely to make out what she was saying.

"They're… gathering. All the Negroes in the city. Everywhere. Guns… gone. Thorpe's funeral? There was a fight. It's spreading, Boy. It's spreading. We're going to die. We're going to die…"

The repetition sent a chill through Boots damp body. He clamped his eyes shut tightly, and listening hard, he thought he could make out the sounds of an ancient scream of pain.

* * *

"Spot." 

A little boy, no older than eight slunk up next to the Brooklyn leader. Spot turned away from his card game and looked at the small child. His voice had been quiet and whatever his message was seemed to be unimportant, but Spot detected a slight tremor of unease.

"S'cuse me boys," Spot addressed his fellow gamblers, returning his cards to the dealer, and left the table.

As soon as they were out of hearing distance, Spot leaned down to the other boy.

"Yeah?"

"There's something goin' on with Boots' people I think you should know about. Something like a riot…"

* * *

"Get out of here! Go!" Mary urged Boots. 

"What about you?"

"I'll be fine. I'm safe here. But you need to hide!"

"Mary…"

"Boots, you of _all _people should become invisible. You were there when _he_ tried to arrest me for 'soliciting'. You were there when Arthur tried to stop him. You were there when _Robert Thorpe_ was stabbed! His people know who you are, and the Irish want you dead!"

"Not Spot."

"Then go back to your spot! Go back to where it's safe!"

The drizzle started to pick up, and Boots wiped his hand across his eyes trying to clear his vision. A chill started seeping into his clothing. Mary shivered beneath him in her bundle of rags, blending into the earth. By Boots standing there, it became obvious that the pile of cloth was more than meets the eye. He was risking her being discovered just by talking. Nobody was on their side street at the moment, but at any time, someone could come along and they'd both be in danger. Boots bit his lip, and looked at her one last time.

"Alright, Mary," he sighed. "I'm going. Keep safe."

Mary peered at Boots as he slunk away, watching him fidget with the ragged cowboy hat on his head, silently praying for his life.

* * *

"Well lookie here, Mush, it's a midget!" Racetrack nudged his friend and pointed to the young boy. 

"You lost, kid?" he asked politely, raising his eyebrows.

The child looked like a drowned rat, standing in the door of the lodging room. Had his eyes not been so large and so serious, the teenagers would have burst out laughing. But as he watched them, Racetrack and Mush felt that it was not a laughing matter.

"I need to talk to Jack."

Without consulting one another, the boys simultaneously pointed to their leader, curled up with a dime store novel on his bunk. The youth nodded shortly and hastened his way across the room. Jack held up a finger to signal for the boy to wait a moment, keeping his eyes on the book. After a moment, he turned and looked at the lad in front of him. Even from their spot on the other side of the room, Racetrack and Mush could tell that what he had to say wasn't good news. Their suspicions were confirmed when seconds later, Jack leapt of the bed and stormed out the lodging house, trailed closely by the messenger into the late afternoon. As Racetrack and Mush watched through the splatters against the window, they felt as though the darkness was descending far too prematurely.

* * *

The streets were almost too peaceful in the rain. Boots kept checking over his shoulder, chiding himself for being paranoid, and then arguing with himself that the threats were real. Soon, his feet led themselves to a familiar street. Memories collided with the present, causing Boots almost to forget his current predicament. Almost- but not quite. 

The casual sounds of footsteps, followed by laughter reached Boots' ears. Swallowing, he attempted to calm down, successfully convincing himself that the people following him weren't Irish: weren't ready to hurt him.

"Look boys! It's another one of 'em!"

On the other hand, Boots thought as he glanced over his shoulder, confirming it was he they were after. Boots began to run, cursing the cobblestones that seemed to leap in front of his feet. Before he'd even reached the end of the block, he knew it was too late. His pursuers were too fast, too full of vengeance. _Oh, God, if you're out there, send me help_, he prayed as the first hand grabbed hold of his shirttail.

* * *

"Spot!" Jack burst into the Brooklyn Lodging House, eyes darting frantically as he searched for their leader. 

"Bout time you showed up," he muttered, emerging from behind the door, shoving past Jack and stepping out into the summer rain.

The pair marched in silence, stride matching stride, expressions identical. All the leaders cared about was finding one boy, and nobody was going to block their mission. Jack was the first to break the muteness.

"Do you have _any_ idea where he's at?"

"Unfortunately."

* * *

_Stupid sense of humor_, Boots shot at God. Help had come, in the form of Mary. The crazy girl had arrived seconds after the attack began, and had started fighting the Irishmen. Now both of them were backed against a wall, held by two giants of men. A third man paced around behind them. Boots searched around him, seeking a way out. _Come on Boots, you know this place! You can do this!_

"Nigger… I recognize you, and you," he pointed to Mary. "Connor, these is the two that killed Rob!"

The man addressed as Connor leered at Mary.

"We was just gonna beat you to half an inch of your life. But now? I think we'll go the whole way, and have our fun with you, little slut, first."

Boots struggled to be free of the grip holding him against the wall. Mary's eyes were wide, almost as though she had long since left the rainy streets of Brooklyn and now only her body remained to be destroyed by the savages in front of her. As the ringleader Connor started ripping at Mary's skirts, a firm nod of the head in Boots' direction made him wish he could join her in the senseless existence and a fist made contact with his nose.

* * *

Cruel laughter tipped Jack and Spot off: they were close to something. A pained cry confirmed that the victim was Boots. Instantly, the two boys were running. The sight that met them gave Jack nightmares for years to come as they stared down the long alleyway. 

A girl, about 19 or 20, was lying crumpled on the ground, her skirts were torn to shreds. An ugly elephant-like man was groping her savagely. Only feet away, Boots was bravely attempting to fight off two goons at once. An all too familiar sight took place as one of the men pulled out a pair of brass knuckles. Jack started running, Spot closely pursuing. The attackers, however, must not have been Delancey's. The knuckle-man, without pausing to gloat, punched with all his force, right in Boots' face. The boy's head was violently pushed to the side, and a sickening crack resonated.

"Boots!" The shout seemed to last forever as Jack saw his friend fall to the ground. All three attackers looked up sharply at the sound of his voice. Spot had already pulled out his slingshot and fired a marble, hitting the groper straight between the eyes. As their leader fell, the other two assailants fled. Spot stepped to the side, allowing them to go free, but shot two more marbles, causing sharp pains in the men's backsides.

Jack was still gasping as he stumbled forward, reaching Boots lifeless form. The knot holding the cowboy hat had been loosened, and the trademark fell from Boots' neck as Jack lifted him into the air.

"Spot, help me," Jack grunted.

Spot looked at the his friends helplessly, then turned and ran, vanishing in the rain. As the water continued to pour down, Jack started his journey to the Jacobs home. Alone.

* * *

Mayer Jacobs was reading comfortably in his chair, using a candle to light the pages in the evening darkness when he heard a frustrated shout outside his door. 

"David?" He called softly to the room behind him, walking unsteadily toward the front of the apartment.

David appeared, holding his grandfather's old cane as a weapon. Father and son landed on either side of the door, and Mayer reached, turning the knob and flinging the door open. At his father's deep gasp, David poked his head around the doorframe to see what the matter was. He felt as though he was going to vomit at the sight on the other side of the threshold.

Jack stood, eyes wild, holding a bloodied Boots. Without even asking, David knew the boy who had once accompanied him to Brooklyn had no life in his broken body as he lay still and cold in Jack's arms.

"Help him, Dave. Help him!" Jack pleaded.

David shook his head in disbelief as Mayer stumbled backwards, landing back on his couch.

"Esther! Sarah!" The older man called breathlessly.

The females emerged from the bedroom, looking puzzled. Esther's gaze fell upon the boys now standing by her kitchen table. The woman's hand fluttered to her heart as she took in the scene.

"Oh, my… oh, my…"

"Get me some rags," Sarah said sharply.

Her demand was met with blank stares.

"Now! And some water! David, go."

David hurried to get the items. When he returned, Sarah had already ordered Jack to place Boots on the bed in the corner of the room. Efficiently, she began cleaning the drying blood off the dead boy's arms and face. When she was satisfied, she stood back, fighting tears as she spoke.

"Daddy? Will you pray?"

Mayer looked at his daughter with a sense of pride. Nodding gently, he bowed his head. All present in the room gathered in a circle around Boots and grasped hands.

"Holy Father," Mayer began reverently, "into your hands, we give you this young newsie…"


	6. Epilogue

_Wrapping things up... sigh  
Please review.  
_

* * *

**Chapter 5:**

September 1950

"Dad? James?" A masculine voice wafted from the ranch's entryway. James jumped at the sound, and stood up, stretching his legs. Since the beginning of his grandfather's tale, he'd remained cross-legged, entranced by the sad tale of years ago. His father's interruption had startled James, but Jack Kelly still sat, staring out the window at his ranch of many years, hands trembling as they held the ancient hat.

"We're in here, Dad!" James called, hearing his father move towards the kitchen to make a sandwich.

"Grandpa?"

Jack jerked slightly, the call of his grandson finally bringing him back to the present. Looking with aching sadness at the youth, he smiled weakly.

"What happened next?"

A heavy sigh escaped the man.

"I… never spoke to Spot again. It was too hard. Sarah wanted to get out of the city to escape from the suppression she felt. Me? I wanted to leave the memories. We married that summer, and began our trek out here," Jack laughed quietly, sadly. "And the rest, as they say, is history."

"And the hat?" James felt intrusive, but he felt such an urgent need, the question came out without checking with him first.

"It came to me in the mail about ten years later. I presume Spot sent it, but I never knew."

"James?" Bryan Kelly called from the kitchen, entering the wide room and seeing his father and son sitting by the bay window. "Dad?"

His eyes traveled to the hat in Jack's hands and grew wide. James shook his head, signaling not to ask. Giving his grandfather a hug, James bid him goodbye, and climbed into the car.

As the automobile started, James looked back at the ranch home and saw his grandfather still staring out the window. Settling back in his seat, he took a breath as the dust grew into a cloud behind him.

"Dad? Can your lawyer friends do me a favor?"

* * *

_Two months later:_

Jack Kelly was working on a puzzle enjoying the pleasant afternoon light from his back porch. He heard a car pull up, but gave it no notice. Visitors often traveled down his beaten path to see the gigantic ranch in all its beauty. They never stayed long.

A doorbell rang. Jack pulled himself out of his chair and walked back through the house to the front door. Opening the door, he saw a stranger standing on his stoop, roughly the same age as Jack himself. Behind him, James Kelly grinned nervously.

"Grandpa Jack? I'd like you to meet my new friend, Daniel. I think you used to know him as Spot," James paused for the effect to sink in. "Spot Conlon."

James didn't know how his grandfather would react to having his past shoved on him. After hearing his story some months back, his father had helped him to track down the infamous Spot Conlon, surprisingly still living in New York. It was amazing enough to have the _Times_ editor agree to come and meet Jack. What happened next was up to Jack, and James admitted he was afraid.

Jack's face displayed a ballet of emotions, changing so quickly, James couldn't even identify them. His face finally rested on shock. For a long second, it looked as though he would slam the door in their face.

"Spot?" Jack's voice was choked with emotion. "Spot?"

Spot smiled uncertainly, unsure what the correct response was. Suddenly, Jack's face broke into a huge smile, showing all the teeth he had left. He reached out and pulled his former friend into the house, engulfing him in an embrace. James smiled as the old men hurried through the house, voices rising and falling in exclamations. Backing away, the eleven-year-old man returned to his father waiting in the car.

"I'm proud of you, son."

* * *

Memories and life stories had been exchanged over the course of an evening. Jack and Spot sat in the fading light, rocking in their respective chairs. 

"Well, Old Man," Spot joked.

"How did you meet Boots?" Jack asked suddenly, breaking the unspoken agreement.

Spot took a deep breath.

"He wanted protection. I wanted to know how to read. Fair trade."

Jack looked at his friend skeptically.

"That's _why_ you know each other, not how," he pointed out.

"Fair enough," Spot paused, and continued quietly. "He saved my life. I don't know how he got to Brooklyn, but somehow he did. You know that alley where he… where _it_ happened?"

Jack nodded and Spot continued.

"It had been raining, for days it had been raining. Somehow, I caught this really bad cough. I started coughing up blood. I didn't know where to go, and I found myself in _that_ alley. Boots showed up, like an angel," Spot winced at his choice of words, "He stayed with me all night, gave me his coat. I caught a fever, and he kept me fairly dry and warm. After the fever broke, he stayed with me until I was able to walk again. He saved my life."

Spot echoed himself, much quieter, almost a whisper.

"He saved my life. Felt as though we'd spent a month there in one night. I was so paranoid after I woke up, he threw a marble at me to calm me down."

The men were silent, swatting at the bugs, and watching the night world come to life. Finally, Jack spoke.

"Oh."

"Jack, I'm sorry. It's all my fault."

Jack looked at his friend in wonder.

"He saved my life! And I…" Spot choked, "I couldn't save his. I've never stopped blaming myself… because I could have gone out earlier, before you'd arrived! And he might still be alive today!"

Jack swallowed. Spot was repeating the very words Jack had thought to himself. Jack had always blamed Spot for Boots' death. But even so…

"Did you send me the hat?"

Spot gave a slight smirk, only a shadow of his former cockiness.

"You never could part from that raggedy thing. After the funeral, I went back to the alley and got it. By the time I got up the courage to try give it back, you and Sarah were gone."

"Wait… you were afraid… of me?"

Shrugging slightly, Spot nodded. "You had reason to kill me, and I knew it."

Jack pushed his old body out of the chair and paced around the porch.

"We've seen a lot of people go by now, haven't we? Race, Dart, Mush, Blink… Sarah," he looked closely at Spot. "Life, life is too short to hold grudges. And Spot?" As he paused, Spot looked up, puzzled, "I'm glad you came. And I can't hold Boots' death against you any more."

Spot imitated his friend's actions and met him over by the railing, looking out at the New Mexican desert. Almost hesitantly, he spit in his hand and held it out to Jack.

"Friends?"

Jack laughed, spit in his own hand, and the pair shook firmly.

"By the way…" Spot's eyes glimmered as he looked at Jack, "your grandson got an 'A' on his paper. The one that took place in 1900."

**The End**


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